11

Viverette Settlement

Shortly before dawn, he entered the cabin and sat on his cot, back resting against the wall, and felt safe. He ignored the agonizing pain racking his shoulder and side while channeling his powers to heal the frightful damage his body had absorbed. He knew if he was to survive he had to go on the offensive once again.

The Wendigo was perplexed. For years he’d been successfully hunting these remote woods and no one had ever stood up to him or had even suspected his presence—until now. Rather than cower or try to escape, this man had fought him and it was obvious he was not about to give up.

_____________

T19, R11

The morning broke to reveal a cloudless sky, no discernable wind, and a temperature well below zero. John carried his rifle when he crawled out of his shelter and stretched, trying to force life into his tired and sore muscles. He looked for depressions in the snow, found traces of blood, and shuddered when he realized how close the Wendigo had gotten to him. He stared off in the direction the Wendigo had fled and wondered if he was doing the right thing by taking this thing on alone. “Well,” he muttered, “sane or insane, I’m in it up to my ass now….” He scanned the trees that bordered the clearing one last time and then returned to the shelter and broke camp.

Once he had finished packing his gear, John checked his weapons to ensure they were still in working order and not frozen. He looped the backpack over his shoulders and set off in pursuit of the Wendigo.

He trudged through the new snow until two in the afternoon, when he came to Camp 75 Road, a half mile south of the abandoned McClintock Mountain lookout tower. The road was a major thoroughfare for the large eighteen-wheel lumber trucks that hauled from the various cutting sites to mills in Maine and across the line in Canada, and had been recently plowed. John sat on the snow bank and sighed. He was cold, hungry, and tired to the point of exhaustion. That, coupled with the fact that he had no idea which way the Wendigo had gone, had him debating how much further he should go. He decided that he would give up for the day and head back. There was at most two hours of daylight remaining and the Little Black checkpoint, where he had left his truck, was about twenty miles away by the road.

John strapped his snowshoes to his pack and started walking south. He had walked a mile and a half when he heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching truck. He turned and waved. When the driver downshifted and broke, the trailer, which was stacked twenty feet high with timber fishtailed slightly.

The side windows of the truck were coated with salt and grit and John could not see the driver’s face. The window rolled down and the driver said, “Jeez crow, I almos’ run you over—you nuts or sumptin’?”

John recognized the driver. He was a local named Rene Thibeau.

Thibeau stared out the open window with eyes that were squinted. “That you, John Bear?”

John knew Thibeau needed glasses, but refused to get them—not that it would make much difference, the windshield of the truck was so splattered with mud that it was doubtful much of anything was visible through it.

Any other time John would have cited him for driving with obstructed vision, but he was too fatigued and wanted a ride. “Bon jour, Rene, I need a ride to the Little Black checkpoint.”

“Well, don’ be standin’ dere. Get yourself in.”

John walked around the front of the big truck, reached up and opened the door. He placed his rifle and rucksack on the floor and climbed in. No sooner had he shut the door than Rene shifted gears and had the truck moving forward.

The lumberman had the stub of an extinguished cigar clenched in his teeth and the truck’s cab smelled like an ashtray that should have been dumped days ago. When the truck was up to cruising speed (which was about ten miles an hour faster than what John would have considered safe for the road conditions), Rene glanced at John’s gear and said, “You carryin’ a lot of guns. How come? It’s too late in the year to be huntin’ bear, you after a wounded animal or somet’ing?”

John knew that to tell Rene what he was hunting would make him sound crazy, so rather than risk it, said, “Yeah. You see anything on the road?”

“Nope, I bin haulin’ from up on Estcourt Road an’ ain’t even seen a fuckin’ coyote….”

John grunted in acknowledgement and settled back in the seat. The truck looked like it was on its last legs and the interior was coated in dust and cigar ash, but it had a damned good heater. In short time the heat penetrated John and he nodded off.

_____________

Little Black Checkpoint

John waved as Rene drove off and turned toward the gatehouse. A cloud of steam rolled out when he opened the door to the heated interior and he stepped inside, quickly pulling the door shut behind him.

Sean O’Connell was on duty and he looked up at John. “I thought that was your truck parked outside. You been out all night?”

John picked up a disposable coffee cup and filled it with hot black coffee. Yeah, I camped up near Lake Frontière.”

O’Connell turned around in his swivel chair and studied John for a few seconds. “Right now ain’t exactly ideal campin’ weather.”

All John could think of to say was, “That’s no shit.”

John settled into another chair and sipped the scalding beverage. He savored the beverage’s heat as it flowed down his throat and into his body. “Are there any fools still in the woods?”

“Damned if I know. Once they pay the toll and enter, who knows where they go. They can head north and come out in Estcourt Station or go west to St. Pamphile…. Roads are all plowed between the major checkpoints. Hell, it’s possible they made a big loop and came out at Dickey. Why you askin’?” O’Connell paused for a second. “This got anything to do with those two fellows that died?”

“Yeah. How’d you hear about them?” John was always amazed at how fast word traveled even in the sparsely populated woods.

“It’s been all over the CB. Damn fools from away. Ain’t got enough sense to check the goddamn weather report.”

John swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Weather had nothing to do with it—the last guy, Raymond Labelle, was a local. They were both murdered.”

O’Connell’s head snapped around. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

John stood up and walked back to the coffee pot. He refilled his cup and returned to the chair. “Sean, you heard about anything … I guess unusual is as good a word as any?”

“Now that you mention it, some idiot from away stopped in a couple weeks back and swore he saw a grizzly bear up north—at Mud Pond I think he said. We almost laughed in his face.”

John finished his coffee and looked at the clock on the wall. It was approaching four in the afternoon and through the window he saw that it was already dark. He still had a ten-mile drive, most of it on unpaved logging road, to get to Lyndon Station. He crumpled the cup and tossed it in a waste can. “Well, I better get the lead outta my ass and head back. If you get any more reports of a grizzly, call me.”

O’Connell smiled and said, “Sure, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“I’m serious. One report we can laugh off, two might be something—most likely not a bear, but something.”

O’Connell turned and stared at John. “Jesus Christ, I believe you’re serious.”

“I am.” John turned to the door. He opened it and said, “Stay warm, Sean.”

“You too.”

John stepped from the warmth of the gatehouse into the cold early evening air. He started his truck and turned east, heading home. As he drove, it took all of his concentration to keep from falling asleep. He cranked the side window down, hoping the frigid night air would keep him awake. As he stared into the tunnel created by his headlights and the six-foot tall snowbanks that the snowplows had pushed up alongside of the road, he wondered what he should do next.